The second day of the attempt broke in the late afternoon.

Elena had spent most of it in her room with the door closed and a book open on her lap that she had not turned a page of in over an hour. The lower bruises under her sleep shirt—she had not bothered with a proper sweater—ached in a dull continuous line. The residual heat of him was gone from between her legs after the long shower the morning before, and the absence of it felt louder than the presence ever had. She kept pressing her thighs together like the pressure might recreate something. It didn’t.

Downstairs the house stayed...